


colours of summer

by quakeriders



Series: feysand tumblr prompt fills [25]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Light Angst, Pining, Rhys POV, The Summer Court (ACoTaR)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quakeriders/pseuds/quakeriders
Summary: Rhys knew that he shouldn’t be here.Well, he should.But not like this.@nomattertheoceans: "I wish you would write a fic from Rhys' point of view at the Summer Court"
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: feysand tumblr prompt fills [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1333426
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	colours of summer

Rhys knew that he shouldn’t be here.

Well, he should.

But not like this.

Not lying on the bed, his long legs stretched out over the sheets that smelled like her.

Not while she was somewhere in this castle, smiling and making pretty eyes at another male.

Not while his mind supplied him with oddly satisfying images of snarling at Tarquin, who kept looking at her like.. like she wasn’t _his_.

No.

Rhys shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be thinking like that. Instead, he should be working. Or at the very least he should be outside, flying to clear his damn head because if he kept going like this, he would ruin their mission. Or everything.

But Rhys hadn’t thought it would be this hard. He hadn’t thought that after only days of having Feyre by his side, sleeping just down the hall from him, it would be so hard to see another male looking at her.. with interest.

He couldn’t blame Tarquin. He really couldn’t. Not when Rhys had a hard time not looking at Feyre himself. But– she was _his_ mate, not Tarquin’s. Feyre was his and every instinct was screaming at him to make that clear, he–

Rhys let out a groan, hating himself for even thinking it. He had promised himself to keep it professional. That the mission mattered more than his feelings.

And he had managed to block her out last night, had managed to ignore the emotions that had been scratching at his mental walls while Feyre had smiled prettily at Tarquin. And he had even managed to ignore her when those blue-grey eyes had dimmed, turning cold and haunted. And she had disappeared.

He still didn’t know _how_ he had managed it. Not following her.

Everything in him had wanted to. As if the bond between them was a physical construct between them, binding him to her. Rhys had wanted to rip himself away from Cresseida and all the other watchful eyes and seek her out.

Feyre’s mind had been a glimmering beacon of light as the boat rocked in the sea. More alluring and brighter than the distant shores and even the stars above them. He wasn’t sure if she knew it, but that whole night, her mind had been reaching for his, claws digging into his shield and trying to pull him to her.

It was a wonder that Rhys hadn’t lost his mind.

And it was a wonder that he wasn’t loosing it now. But there was still time.

Because while Feyre had been calling for him last night, he had forced himself to stay away and now that her mind was blocked off, sealed tightly behind a wall of adamant, here he was. Lying on her bed, inhaling her scent and trying not to think about how she would entice Tarquin into trusting her.

Another set of images played in his mind now. Her pale skin, dressed in colors of summer, a set of hands that wasn’t his running all over it. Feyre’s breath, soft and low and full of want. Tarquin’s honeyed voice telling her that he wanted her, Feyre leaning into his touch–

One of the stupid sea shells that decorated Feyre’s dresser cracked in two. Rhys realized that he was clutching the sheets, his chest tight and heart hammering against his ribs.

He needed to get a grip on himself.

He needed to calm down. Him being this unhinged wouldn’t do him any favors. Not with Feyre. Not with Tarquin. Not with this whole messed up situation.

So, Rhys breathed in slowly. Held his breath as he counted to ten and then exhaled even slower.

He did this for long minutes and he was almost calm by the time he could feel Feyre coming closer.

Rhys couldn’t get a read on her, her mind sealed just as tightly as it had been that morning. So, Rhys did what he does best. He put on a mask.

It was harder than it should have been to conjure up a smirk and at the last moment, he shifted his position, sliding his legs down. It didn’t matter how right it felt to be lying in her bed, he had no right to make himself at home in it. He didn’t want to see the look in her eyes upon seeing him lying there, as if he was staking a claim. As if he had any right to that space.

With his feet planted firmly on the floor, it felt less like that. The door handle shifted and Rhys took a final breath to calm himself, before crossing his arms behind his head and smirking at Feyre.


End file.
